It's Just Us
by BlueRiverSteel
Summary: Tag to 12x03, The Foundry. "Dean needed . . . he needed something, and Sam was damn sure he couldn't give it to him, but that wasn't going to stop him from trying." Pairs well with Nova42's "It's Just You."


**A/N: Look I'm not dead! I apologize for not posting for** _ **so long**_ **, y'all have probably forgotten who I even am. *shakes hand* Hi there, I'm River, your friendly neighborhood fan fic writer…and soon to be author, hopefully! I've been focused heavily on both my own original novel and my music, hoping to turn both those things into a paying gig at some point in the nearish future.**

 **Excuses aside, I have NOT stopped writing and don't intend to, like, ever. So here's a short tag to 12x03, The Foundry, because that final scene, man. I couldn't** _ **not**_ **. This takes place directly after Nova42's tag,** _ **It's Just You**_ **, so you should definitely check that one out too.**

 **Huge thanks to Nova42 and chrissie0707 for kicking me in the proverbial backside to write this, and for all the fairy dust.**

* * *

 _It's Just Us_

* * *

Sam stood there for a long time, blinking stupidly, after Dean left the library without so much as a word. He should go after his brother, some part of him knew that, but he could barely think past the cold crushing weight that had taken up residence in the space his heart once was. It had hurt, physically _hurt_ , when Mom had shut the bunker door—a sound with such finality to it that it felt like an omen. A sound that had caused an ache so sharp that he hadn't been able to move since.

He had never been abandoned before, not really, not like this. Dean had left him after the incident with Gadreel, but Sam had been so lost in his anger that he missed the silent plea from his brother and all but sent him away.

In college he had missed Dean horribly, but _he'd_ been the one to leave; he had made the choice and walked out the door. He'd felt the sting of loss before, friends that had been killed—he was sorry to say he was fairly used to that, hunters did not go quietly into the night. That loss, it was different; the blow was always softened by the fact that it wasn't their choice to go. But this, this was worse; the knowledge that Mom hadn't been taken from them forcibly, had left of her own accord under her own will because they weren't . . .

Sam felt his heart slam against his chest and the hot rush of anger filled his veins. Because they weren't the children she remembered? Because after thirty years of fighting and hunting and struggling to survive they weren't the boys she wanted? She was lucky they were there at all; the years had been anything but kind to Sam and Dean Winchester.

The anger that swelled in his chest dissipated as quickly as it had come, smothered by the breathless grief of before; and Sam wondered vaguely when, or if, his legs would remember how to move, or if they would figure out where to move _to_.

 _Where do you go from here?_

He looked across the room, seeking guidance from his brother only to realize he wasn't there. He vaguely recalled Dean standing stock still for only a few moments after the bunker door shut before making his own quick exit.

Sam had spent years living inside his brother's pocket; he knew the man better then he knew himself and he knew that there was nothing more important to his older brother than family, there was nothing Dean had wanted more then his family. He also knew how Dean would take their mother's departure.

Dean needed . . . he needed _something_ , and Sam was damn sure he couldn't give it to him, but that wasn't going to stop him from trying.

There weren't many places Dean would go, two exits out of the library, but Sam found he couldn't really recall which of them Dean had taken; only knew that he'd gone, and that it had driven home to Sam how quickly his little family had fallen apart. A dusty memory pulled at the corner of Sam's mind and a question began to formulate. He swallowed the golf ball sized lump lodged in his throat, and pushed the thought away before it could take root.

After he determined Dean wasn't in his room or in the kitchen throwing dishes at the wall, he took the stairs, two at a time, to the garage.

The light was off, and he almost went back, but he wasn't sure where else his brother would be; this was the last place he knew to look for him. He paused, his gaze drawn to the car. He'd never really understood Dean's obsession with his Baby, but he did know it was the closest thing either of them ever had to a home, until the bunker. Even though he didn't often show it, she meant a great deal to Sam as well, and he couldn't deny the instinct to seek out the comfort of her familiarity.

As he drew near the car, he could just make out a shadow in the driver's seat, and he didn't need instinct to tell him who it was. The door creaked as he opened it; Dean twitched as Sam settled in beside him. He stared out the windshield into the darkness, simply taking solace from sitting there, next to his brother, in the car, where he belonged.

After a few moments Dean broke the silence. "I don't wanna talk 'bout it." His voice was thick, but surprisingly clear, and Sam almost felt bad at his shock that Dean hadn't been drinking.

Sam sniffed and nodded his head. "I know."

They sat in complete silence, Sam wasn't sure how long. Time didn't seem to matter, it'd suddenly taken on a meaningless perspective. He felt numb for a while, then he grew angry for a bit before it melted into horrified, terrified, and stricken in turn. The horrible thought, the _question_ from earlier burrowed its way back to the surface, and he heard the words leave his mouth before he could stop them:

"Is this how it felt when I . . . left?"

He cursed himself immediately; nothing like pulling at old wounds, _real smooth, Winchester._

Dean was silent for a long moment. Sam wasn't sure the man was going to answer and opened his mouth to apologize when Dean spoke.

"Which time?"

Sam winced, but supposed he deserved that. He cleared his throat. "When I, uh . . . when I left for college."

"Pretty much, yeah."

Sam felt like someone had taken a knife to his already-bleeding heart; he'd never intended to hurt Dean like this. _Never._ He'd been young, and wanted out, and seen no other way—likely because he was too hotheaded and eager to escape, he acknowledged that now—but he'd never been out to hurt Dean.

"How . . . how can you even stomach the sight of me after that?" He wanted, _needed_ to know the answer.

Dean turned to look at him and Sam was glad there was little light; he was certain every emotion he was feeling was written plainly across his face. Dean didn't move, appearing to consider the question, which surprised Sam and little, but not much. Sam wasn't the only one that had lost some of that youthful hotheadedness.

Finally, his brother answered, slowly and a little shakily, not that Sam would ever call him on it. "I tried to look at it from your point of view. You wanted out, wanted something good for yourself, and I wanted what Dad offered. Hurt like hell when you left, Sammy, but I understood it later."

Sam squinted through the dark; his answer sounded good, balanced and mature, _mentally healthy_ even, and that gave him pause. He loved his brother, but Dean wasn't exactly the poster child for healthy coping. He shifted in his seat then asked, "Understood what?"

Dean looked away at that, lifted one shoulder in a half-shrug, in that way he had when he was trying to brush something off. "That it wasn't enough for you, that I wasn't . . ." he trailed off, but Sam didn't need him to finish to know exactly what he was thinking.

Sam was suddenly angry all over again, as well as very tired. Part of him cursed their mother for ripping the scabs off poorly healed wounds. He shook his head. "Dean that's not—"

"Hey, man, I don't blame you—"

"Well you should!" Sam nearly shouted. "I was wrong. What I _wanted_ wasn't, but how I went and got it... _Dean_." He turned so he was facing his brother fully, begging the side of Dean's head to understand. "I never wanted to hurt you."

Dean rolls his head to the side. "Sam . . ."

"I'm sorry."

Dean's eyes flicked over to him. There was something soft there Sam couldn't quite make out in the dark. "Sam, don't do this to yourself—"

"I just…I've never felt like this before. It's like someone ripped out half my insides and left them tossed across the floor, even though I sort of get why she did it…" Sam was rambling, he knew he was rambling, but he couldn't bring himself to care or stop. "And it's worse because now I know I did this…to _you_ …and now you have that experience on top of this, and it's my fault—"

"Sam." Dean's hand shot to his shoulder, firmly turning him to face his brother. "Stop."

"She left us, Dean, and I can't seem to process it right."

Dean's fingers twitched against his bicep, and his eyes flashed with a helpless anguish before his big brother mask shuttered into place again. It wasn't as thick as it used to be, but it was still just as effective as ever.

Dean sighed. "She needs time, Sam. You heard her. We have to try to understand what this is like for her, even though we get the shit end of the stick about it." He tried for a smirk, failed miserably. "We really should be used to it by now." He paused before adding. "She'll be back."

Sam worried on his bottom lip then asked, "How do you know?"

Dean looked at him in earnest, warmth touching the corners of his eyes. "You came back."

Sam ducked his head, unsure how to respond to that. They sat in silence for several more minutes before Sam's mouth ran away from him again, voicing a fear he barely knew he was harboring.

"S-still you and me against the world, right?"

Dean's lips twitched, expression settling into something resembling affectionate.

"Just like always, little brother."


End file.
